


Why would I be in a car?

by turpentinevalentine



Category: Petscop (Web Series)
Genre: It’s in a car, NSFW, Smut, t4t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28888854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turpentinevalentine/pseuds/turpentinevalentine
Summary: You’re enjoying a day with your partner Paul when he gets a little problem and doesn’t know what to do...
Relationships: Paul Leskowitz/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Why would I be in a car?

**Author's Note:**

> Well ao3, im transmasc and i need the transmasc paul petscop fanfiction. It’s paul with bottom growth wood. Happy birthday
> 
> To those of us who watched petscop and decided we really wanna top this guy, god fucking speed.

It’s been exceptionally hard these days to keep himself together. These things happened from time to time, but never really as bad as this. You notice Paul’s a little more oblivious than usual.

He’s wound up like a goddamn spring. One hand planted on his scalp, the other digging into his elbow as he sits hunched over at the table. His face is a mix of exhausted and stern, eyes gazing straight ahead. He’s focusing on something intangible. Is he okay?

All he could really do was sit there with his legs apart and wait for it to pass. It’s embarrassing, but inescapable. At this point you know exactly whats going on, and the right fix.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” He was suddenly conscious, blinking.

“You having trouble?” You look down.

“Yeah...” it’s half a word and half a sigh. He was really struggling.

“Cmon.” You urge him up. He’s confused. 

“What.”

“Cmon, let’s go.” You somehow get him out of the booth, which is a feat considering how dazed he is. Usually when things like this happen he doesn’t know how to react other than becoming a nervous sweaty mess. Not a lot of agency in this one.

You two were going for an outing before Paul’s little event. You get the man back to your car and embrace him.

You know he’s the most passive guy in the world, so you guide him, pushing him so he’s laying on his back across the back seat. The car door thumps shut behind you. It’s ludicrously spacious back here. 

He’s sort of limp at this point - he knows what you’re up to but can’t even object. Usually he’s at least a little insistent to return favors, since he feels bad making you do all the work. He’s in dire need, though, and welcomes your help. He lays back and lets you undo his trousers. 

With his boxers down you see what you’re working with. He was really hard, and you could tell he was embarrassed by it.

“Oh god, really? What even happened?” Your tone has a tinge of pity. You start pulling down your pants like you do this every day. 

“I d-, I don’t know!” His frustration showed itself. It was so, so stupid. Nothing even prompted the hard on, just some hormonal reaction. He’s bright red.

You drop onto him and he instantly tenses from the zap of pleasure. Something between a squeak and a gasp escapes from him. His eyes are squeezed shut, face burning.

You decide to grind this one out. Your hips sway across his wood and caress the burning itch. It’s complete torture - Paul’s too shy to let himself get loud but it’s near impossible at this point. You can see he’s restraining himself so hard it looks like he’s about to explode.

Your hips buck forward and back, fuck it feels so good. He’s miles ahead of you though, and from your view you can watch him lovingly. He’s cute. 

Considering this is a car parked in the midday, you help him conceal his own yelps by covering his mouth. He puts his hands over yours in a gesture of “Yes, god, please help me” 

It’s a little useless at this point though, since by the time you get him to climax - which is hilariously short - the gasping and sputtering are too much for the hands to contain. He convulses. Poor guy is a trembling mess. It got to you too, if your throbbing has anything to say about it. You can feel the heat radiating off your face while he lays there sighing, the ecstasy hardly leaving him peace. 

“That help?”

He can barely talk. “Yeah...” He’s limp, exhausted. 

“If you say so.” You give him a peck on the lips and reach for your pants. Somebody’s gotta drive this poor guy home.


End file.
